


No Man's Knowledge

by cuttooth



Series: An Essay Concerning Human Understanding [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Acephobia, Canon Asexual Character, Choking, Extremely Dubious Consent, Humiliation, M/M, Non-canon use of Beholding powers, Oral Sex, Peter Lukas is a creep, Sexual Coercion, Voyeurism, Zero sexual negotiation, sexuality shaming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-20 15:58:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18995863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuttooth/pseuds/cuttooth
Summary: Jon shrinks away as Peter’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, cold and firm. Peter is smiling benevolently.“It’s all right,” he says. “I know you Beholding types can’t help it. The Eye makes you all into voyeurs. I’m not here to cast blame, Jon. I’m here to help.”*Peter offers Jon an experience.





	No Man's Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> Follow up to [The Improvement Of Understanding](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18739303), and won't make much sense unless you read that first. Third installment (hopefully) to follow. 
> 
> Please heed the warning tags. I do not give Jon a good time here.

_“No man’s knowledge here can go beyond his experience”_  
John Locke - An Essay Concerning Human Understanding

 

It’s after eleven when Jon finally concedes for the night. His eyes are gritty and sore, the words on the page starting to blur, and though he doesn’t feel all that tired he should probably get some sleep. The dull headache is more of a fixture these days.

He can never do enough, is the problem. Never _learn_ enough, not until he’s learned enough to save everyone, and that’s not possible. So it will never be enough, and until his _patron_ sees fit to remove his physical limits, he has to bow to the demands of his body. He used to bristle when Martin would scold him for overworking himself, but now that Martin’s not around he has to regulate his own behavior. Pushing too hard today means reduced function tomorrow, and Jon’s trying his best to keep things steady. On an even keel.

He rolls his shoulders stiffly as he stands up, trying to undo the hours hunched over his desk. There’s a kink in his left shoulder that won’t work itself out. He should probably have it looked at, but if he hasn’t had time for that in the past month it’s not likely he will anytime soon.

Switching off the light in his office leaves the Archives in darkness. He uses his phone’s torch to navigate, not wanting to disturb Daisy and Basira, who’ll be in their nest near the tunnels. (Melanie usually sleeps in Helen’s corridors these days; Jon wishes she wouldn’t, but he’s in no position to tell her so.) Jon’s staked out Document Storage for his own little camp, although the patched wall makes memory squirm silver up his spine, and he can't stop looking at the mismatched paint where they covered up Juergen Leitner’s blood stains. Maybe he’s just a glutton for punishment.

Jon isn’t surprised to see light shining through the glass panel in the door. It _is_ still a store room, after all. People sometimes forget to turn them off. He thinks nothing of it right up until he opens the door and sees Peter Lukas sitting on the camp bed, flipping casually through a case file. He looks up as Jon enters and gives a broad, friendly smile.

“Hi, Jon,” he says. “How are you?”

“Get out,” Jon tells him flatly. He’s in no mood for this.  

Peter gives a good-humored tut and sets the folder aside. Stands up and steps right into his space, reminding Jon of precisely how much larger and stronger Peter is. Monsterhood aside, Peter Lukas could take Jon apart with his bare hands.  

“That’s not very friendly,” he says, a gentle reprimand in his voice. “I thought we were starting to get along?”

Jon snorts.

“Look, whatever you’re here for, you can forget it. I’m not interested in playing any more of your games.”

“No, I’d imagine not,” Peter says thoughtfully. “You have a little game of your own these days, don’t you?”

“I - what?” 

“Why don’t you shut the door, Jon? I’m sure you don’t want anyone else overhearing our conversation.”

Jon shuts the door. His heart is pounding, and he composes himself as he turns back to Lukas. He can't be talking about that. There's no way he could know.

“Much better,” Peter says. “Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

His tone is that of a disappointed parent, stern but kind, and Jon is suddenly, entirely sure that Peter Lukas _knows_. Despite himself, he feels a flush of guilt crawl up his neck. He stammers out a denial. 

“I - I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Voyeurism is a nasty habit, Jon.”

“That’s not - ”

“Don’t deny it,” Peter tells him. “I’ve known Elias far too long not to feel when I’m being spied on.”

He takes a step closer, and Jon can feel the chill radiating off his skin. Jon backs up and bumps into the metal of the door. A shiver runs down between his shoulder blades as cold encloses him on both sides, pinning him in place. 

“You’ve been _knowing,_ haven’t you, Archivist?” Peter continues pleasantly. “Knowing all night long, sometimes.”

Jon’s mouth is too dry to form words, and he can only shake his head. Not even a denial, anymore, but a refutation of everything that’s happening right now.

“If you wanted to watch again,” Peter says, “You should have asked. I could have arranged it just like the first time.”

“I don’t - ”

“I know you don’t,” Peter tells him. “That’s why you like to watch, isn’t it? See what normal people do together?”

Hot shame floods through Jon’s skull. He feels tears pricking at his eyes and squeezes them shut. Peter Lukas is an icy presence in his awareness, too close, far too close.

“I only want you to admit it, Jon. I want to hear you say the words.”

“All right,” Jon snaps, opening his eyes to glare at Peter Lukas’ smug face. “Fine. I - _knew._ About you and Martin.”

“Doing what?” Peter prompts gently. Jon huffs a frustrated breath through his nose. If Peter wants the precise words then fine.

“Having sex.”

There is something thrilling and sickening about the admission, and Jon swallows hard. His pulse is still racing. He could try to stutter an excuse, but it would mean less than nothing.

There's no point in explaining to a monster like Peter Lukas. How guilt ate at him after that first time, trapped and unable to look away. How he couldn't stop thinking, afterwards, that there should have been _something_ he could do, some way to stop it. 

How he - couldn’t stop thinking about all of it. About the way Martin looked after being kissed, flushed and happy. The sounds he made with Peter’s face buried between his legs. The intimacy and vulnerability that Jon should never have seen.

He couldn't forget it. And days later, sitting in his office,  **knowing**  had hit him with sudden, startling intensity. An awareness out of nowhere, that Martin was -  _with_ Peter again. Aroused and eager.

Jon might blame the Beholding for that unasked knowledge, except it was his choice to let it in, let it curl through his consciousness. To reach for  _more,_ feeling Peter's cold static against Martin's heat, over and around and inside. To **know** , his face flaming, when Martin's pleasure peaked over, wrapped in Peter's numb embrace.

It’s _been_ Jon’s choice, every time it's happened since, every time the awareness seeps unbidden into his brain, and he’s been too weak and too monstrous to stop it.

It’s not as if he's  **seeing,** not like Elias does, but that doesn’t make it any less wrong. He can make any excuse he wants: that he’s keeping tabs on Lukas, making sure he doesn’t harm Martin, that the Eye is driving him to it, but it’s only words. Jon _wants_ to know, shamefully and hungrily. And now Peter Lukas _knows_ he knows, and it’s just a matter of how he chooses to use that information.

Jon shrinks away as Peter’s hand lands heavily on his shoulder, cold and firm. Peter is smiling benevolently.

“It’s all right,” he says. “I know you Beholding types can’t help it. The Eye makes you all into voyeurs. I’m not here to cast blame, Jon. I’m here to help.”

“What do you want?” Jon asks bluntly, because he might as well get to the heart of it, hear Peter’s threats or demands right away. Dragging this out won’t make it any better, and he won't beg. Peter laughs.

“Nice to see you so keen,” he says. “I knew we were starting to get along. Maybe we’ll even become friends.”

“Get to the point, Lukas.”

Peter’s hand squeezes his shoulder, just hard enough to hurt, to remind Jon that Peter can hurt him. Then he releases his grip, and pats Jon’s cheek.

“I’m here to offer you an experience, Jon. You’ve been spying on Martin getting fucked for weeks now. Aren't you curious as to how it feels?”

“What? No!” Jon is reflexively, violently repulsed. Peter smiles again.

“Don’t be hasty,” he says. “It might be an important experience for you. Might encourage you to stop your bad habits. It’s not me I’m worried about, you understand, it’s Martin. This is a violation of his privacy, and I really don’t think that’s fair, do you, Jon?”

The implication is far from subtle, and Jon blanches. Swallows around the sour bile rising in his throat.

“Martin wouldn’t believe you,” he says, and feels disgusted with himself. Because Martin trusts Jon, or used to, at least. He wouldn’t believe Jon could do something like that. Jon wouldn’t have believed it of himself, not so long ago.

“I’m sure Martin can make up his own mind,” says Peter. “Tell me, Jon, if he asked you about it, would you look him in the eyes and lie, on top of everything else you've done?”

Jon is trapped, helpless, his stomach twisting. He's brought this on himself, he knows. Put himself in a position where Peter Lukas has a hold over him. The knowledge settles leaden and inevitable in his chest, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.

“If I do this,” he says, “You won't tell Martin?”

“Not a word will go beyond these walls.” Peter pats the wall beside him emphatically.

“About _all_ of it, I mean. Not just - this.” He doesn’t want any of Lukas’ tricks.

“I promise, Jon. I’ll even give you a choice, since I’m feeling generous. I can fuck you, or you can suck my cock.”

“How magnanimous,” Jon says flatly, and Peter beams.

“Keep being rude,” he says agreeably, “And I’ll fuck your arse wide open and your mouth shut both. That’s also a choice you can make.”

Jon looks away, suppressing a grimace. He doesn’t want to give Lukas the satisfaction.

“Fine,” he says. “Oral, then.”

“What’s that you said?”

“I’ll - I’ll suck your cock,” Jon mutters, and Peter claps him on the shoulder.

“Good choice,” he says. “I don’t have any lubricant, so the other way would be a bit less pleasant for you.”

Jon bites back the retort that rises in his throat about how _pleasant_ he expects this to be. Peter backs up at last, giving Jon space to breathe, and resumes his seat on the the camp bed, legs spread wide. Pats the bed frame between his thighs invitingly.

“Come here then, don’t be shy.”

Jon’s heart is thundering, fight or flight, as he folds to his knees in front of Peter Lukas. He reaches for the fly of the man’s trousers, and startles when Peter grabs his wrist.

“I'm more of a gentleman than that,” Peter tells him. He releases Jon’s arm and his large, cold hands grasp Jon’s face, just firmly enough to brook no argument.

Jon feels like he’s about to panic, but he pushes it away, lets Peter tip his face up. Lets Peter lean in and kiss him. It's a gentle press of lips at first, dry and chapped, Peter’s beard scratching against his skin. It isn’t so bad, even, until he feels Peter’s mouth trying to coax his open. Peter’s tongue pushing into Jon’s mouth, curling possessive around his own. He stays rigidly still, willing it to be over, and after a moment Peter pulls back.

“Martin usually participates,” he says, gently reproachful, his finger tapping against Jon’s cheekbone. Jon nods shakily, and when Peter kisses him again he forces himself to respond, lips and tongue moving mechanically. Peter tastes faintly of mint and aniseed, and he explores Jon’s mouth slowly, thoroughly, his hands cradling Jon’s face. Under other circumstances it might even be an enjoyable kiss, and by the time Peter pulls away for the second time, Jon’s lips are buzzing with the sheer physical sensation of it. His breathing is unsteady, alarm fraying the edges of his self control.

“Very nice,” Peter says, hooking his thumb roughly against the corner of Jon’s mouth. “I’m starting to see what Elias finds so charming about you.”  

Jon just gives him a defiant stare, and Peter chuckles. Ruffles Jon’s hair and then sits back, spreading his legs a little wider.

“Go ahead, then,” he says. “Let’s see if your mouth’s good for anything else.”

Jon’s hindbrain is screaming at him to run, blood rushing in his ears, but instead he leans forward and undoes Peter Lukas’ fly with trembling fingers. Pulls the fabric aside to see that Peter isn’t wearing underwear. _Came prepared,_ Jon thinks sarcastically, but doesn’t voice it. Peter’s cock is flaccid, nestled in a neat thatch of silvering hair. Jon untucks it from his trousers and holds it in his palm, hesitating.

“It goes in your mouth,” Peter suggests, and Jon steels himself. Leans in and draws Peter’s cock entirely into his mouth. The sensation is odd, the flesh soft and pliant, lying across Jon’s tongue. It tastes of almost nothing, only faintly musky. Jon gives a tentative suck, and swipes his tongue along the length. Feels it starts to swell and stiffen, gradually filling his mouth as Peter makes low, pleased sounds. Peter's large hand cups the back of Jon's skull. 

“You’ve done this before,” Peter says, twisting his hand into Jon’s hair. “Not as uptight as I thought you were.”

Jon ignores him. Keeps sucking, playing his tongue over the head as Peter's cock hardens fully, because if he can make this good then it might go quicker. And he knows how to make it good. He learned long ago that if you’re eager with your hands and mouth, it distracts people from the things you’d rather not do. Nobody ever insists too hard on reciprocating. It can even be nice, with somebody you like, knowing that when they moan and gasp and writhe, it’s because of you.

This is - far from nice, on his knees on the hard concrete floor of Document Storage, with a man he despises. Peter's cock stretching his jaw, heavy and hard, saliva pooling under his tongue. Jon squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think about anything else, the case he was just working on, the latest intel Basira’s provided. His hands are balled into fists, digging into the meat of his thighs.

He teases the slit of Peter’s cock with his tongue, tasting the pre-ejaculate already leaking. He draws it further in, the head grazing against the roof of his mouth, and Peter groans. If Jon works it right, this will be over soon. He sucks harder, impatient.

Peter’s fingers tighten in his hair, and he pulls Jon off sharply. Jon gives a strangled gasp at the pain in his scalp.

“What’s the hurry?” Peter asks. “I’d almost think you were trying to get this over with, Jon. You wouldn’t insult me like that, would you?”

“Of course not,” Jon says flatly. Peter smiles, and rubs the wet head of his cock against Jon’s lips. His hand in Jon’s hair holds him firmly in place.

“Good,” he says. “Open up, then.”

Jon opens his mouth obediently and lets Peter press his cock back inside. Stays still as Peter’s hips start to move, thrusting shallowly into his mouth.

“There’s a good boy,” Peter tells him breathily. “I don’t know what Elias is talking about. You take direction beautifully.”

Jon keeps his eyes closed and tries to slacken his jaw, just let it happen. The pain in his scalp has died to a dull ache where Peter holds him still, and he can nearly detach himself from what’s happening. After a few minutes he feels his thoughts starting to drift, his body relaxing. It's an almost pleasant sensation. Peter’s cock slides rhythmically over the flat of his tongue, Peter panting softly in time to his thrusts.

He’s brought sharply back to himself as Peter’s foot nudges hard in between his knees, kicking them apart. Peter’s movement stills, and he tugs sharply on Jon’s hair, making him grunt in protest around the hard length still filling his mouth.

“You know, sucking cock really gets Martin going,” Peter says conversationally. “He can’t keep his hands off himself when he’s on his knees. Not you, though.”

He nudges up against Jon’s groin with the toe of his shoe, making a thoughtful  _hmm_ sound.

“Is there anything that gets you going, Jon? Is it watching that does it for you? Have you tiddled your wink to that  _knowing_ of yours?”

Jon feels his face go hot with guilt, because he hasn't, god, he _wouldn't,_ but - he's wanted to, and he doesn't know what the hell is wrong with him. He rarely has the urge to masturbate, and when he does he rarely thinks of anything in particular. Pornography has never appealed, and fantasies have never been a feature of his sexual landscape. But something about that memory, seeing and hearing Martin come apart under Peter's mouth and hands, sends coils of mortifying heat through him, even now. He's tried not to think too hard about why. Tried to just ignore it, the way he does most things that bother him.

“Is that it, then?” Peter says gleefully, stroking his foot more firmly against Jon's groin. “A true voyeur?”

Jon doesn’t bother responding, just blinks away the wetness in his eyes as Peter resumes thrusting lightly into his mouth. He can taste pre-ejaculate leaking steadily now, thick and bitter on his tongue, and he thinks Peter must be close. He tugs slightly against the hand still gripping his hair, trying to take more of Peter’s cock. Peter lets him, slides his cock deeper, pushing past Jon's soft palate and into his throat until it’s almost choking him. Jon breathes uncomfortably through his nose. Both of Peter's hands are stroking his face, now, his hair. Refusing to let him detach, the opposite of what Jon would have expected from the Lonely, pulling him forcefully back into his body with every gentle, callous touch.

“Do you think Martin would be upset?” Peter asks, curling his fingers carefully around Jon’s throat. “To know that you’d pull your pud to the sight of him getting fucked, but you won’t touch him yourself? That would have to be a blow to the old self-esteem.”

Tears finally escape out of the corners of Jon's eyes, trickling down his cheeks in shame and fear, as Peter’s hand squeezes his throat, Peter’s cock filling it from the inside. Jon can hear his breath noisy and panicked through his nostrils, saliva drooling down his chin. His fingers dig into his own thighs, hard enough that he’ll find bruises later. He doesn’t pull away though, lets Peter’s cock push down his throat as Peter’s fingers press cruel and inexorable against his windpipe. He deserves this.

Peter comes with a low groan, one hand tight around Jon’s throat and the other gently cradling his cheek. The bitter salt taste of semen floods through Jon’s mouth and down his gullet, even as Peter keeps thrusting deeper, until he’s gagging around Peter’s cock. Peter stills his movements but keeps his cock buried in Jon’s throat, making little quiet shushing noises as his hand strokes soothingly across Jon’s brow, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Jon can’t even bring himself to flinch away.

“That was very nice,” Peter says eventually, his tone even. “And I think you’ve learned your lesson about spying, haven’t you?”

Jon nods fractionally. Peter smiles and pats him on the cheek. Pulls his softening cock slowly out of Jon’s mouth and wipes it against his face, smearing him with saliva and ejaculate. Jon coughs weakly, bile and semen still clogging his throat, his eyes stinging and wet. Peter tucks himself away and fastens his trousers, then stands up, nudging Jon out of his way.

“I’m glad we had this chat,” he says. “It’s always good to get these things out in the open, isn’t it, Martin?”

It takes Jon half a second to register what Peter’s said, and he twists his head around, horrified. Martin is standing against the far wall, gray staticky fog dissipating around him as he steps out of the Lonely.

“Jon,” he says, and the look on his face is so heartbroken that Jon can’t bear it. Can't face Martin like this, his cheeks flushed and smeared with body fluids, crying, choking on Peter's come and his own shame.

He whips back around to Peter, but there's nothing he can say, no accusation he can throw. What could he possibly say that wouldn't sound selfish or cowardly or both, when Martin's the one who's suffered this betrayal?

Peter smiles indulgently down at him, his eyes cold.

“As I promised,” he says, “Not a word goes beyond these walls.”

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [@cuttoothed](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/cuttoothed).


End file.
